


autolatry

by archons



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Gen, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 07:24:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4129596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archons/pseuds/archons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He never considered looking to himself. He was burned out and desperate, smelling of stale sweat and sick. He was hungry–hungry for everything, not just a meal. What sort of god could he be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	autolatry

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted [here](http://pavus.tumblr.com/post/121460144659).

It took years for Samson to forget the comforting weight of prayer beads in his palm, to keep from looking for the pouch on his belt, to fight off the rush of disappointment and the scattering of his thoughts when he came up empty.

Upon taking his vows, he brought with him a chain from Tantervale. It was made from wood and stained glass and crushed Andraste’s grace. The largest bead was a perfect sphere of coral. He rubbed those wooden beads smooth and featureless over his time serving the Chantry. 

A month after his forced expulsion, he sold the beads for just enough gold to nurse his habit for a couple of weeks. Whatever succor the lyrium gave him was small in comparison to the loss he felt in regards to the prayer beads. And when the lyrium was gone, too, he used a length of leather instead.

With his withdrawal-ravaged head throwing his attention this way and that, like a ball on the deck of a poorly captained ship, Samson needed the beads to focus. He needed something in his hands to keep the number straight. The words of his prayers bled into each other, even as his fingers stumbled over the man-made lumps in the leather. There was no use. And in the end, stopping was easier than confronting the struggle.

Time fought on, weathering Samson’s beliefs until they were bone-white and fragile enough to snap in the right hands or the wrong ones. The Maker abandoned him, same as the Chantry. There was nothing good about any of it. So he looked inside of himself instead, to find the pieces that weren’t blackened with well-deserved hate.

Bleak was a shit word for life, wasn’t it? He loathed how the word felt at the back of his mouth, unspoken but still tasting like bile. _Bleak_ was for gray weather. What he felt was a firestorm, not a fog.

He never considered looking to himself. He was burned out and desperate, smelling of stale sweat and sick. He was hungry–hungry for everything, not just a meal. What sort of god could he be?

Exactly the sort he needed, Samson soon discovered. He stopped living as the Chantry dictated not long after being cast away from the maker’s light, but it took him a long time to start living for himself. This began by asking himself the right questions. 

_What do I deserve?_ became _what do I need?_

Selfish to some, but necessary to those living outside of the Chantry’s protection, where the nights were darker and the days were darker still. When you fall far enough, you’re all you have left. Ideas don’t matter as much as sheer force of will. No one is going to reach down to help you; it’ll be your own arms pulling yourself out of that hole.

Samson braced himself. He forgot the beads, forgot their pathetic replacement, and curled his hands around the grip of a greatsword. 

Every god has their weapons. 

The difference was that _he_ wielded his.


End file.
